The God-King's bronze features remained impassive as he studied Adam with calculating intensity. The memorial flames cast shifting shadows across his perfect face, highlighting the sharp intelligence that burned in eyes that held memories of both mortal pharaoh and divine construct.
"Your vision troubles me," Ozymandias said, his voice carrying the formal cadence of ancient courts. "I inherited memories of rulers who spoke of peace while preparing chains, who promised freedom while forging new shackles. What assurance do I have that you will not simply become another tyrant wearing the mask of liberation?"
The question hung heavy in the air between them, weighted with the gravity of divine judgment. Luna shifted slightly beside Adam, fire igniting in her hand instinctively with a low, serpentine hiss before stopping herself—this was not a battle to be fought with raw power.
